Roxanne, Meet Karma Chameleon

With musical opinions to spare, I admit I was curious.

What could a Facebook algorithm tell me about what kind of high school stereotype I was, based solely on my choices of '80s music? So I took the quiz and got my grade.

The way you've covered every '80s genre makes us think that you were the studious type in high school. You may not have appreciated the label when you were young, but being a nerd paid off. You are intelligent, well-rounded and all the awkwardness has disappeared. Though you were a nerd back then, you're a nerd no more.

Hold it right there. I am still very much a nerd and no wanna-be judgement calculator is going to tell me otherwise. But if you're going to fit me into a high school box, I'll be the first to admit that nerd is where I belong.

Straight As? Check. National Honor Society? Check. Graduated a year early? Check. No question, I was a nerd, even if we didn't have that word back then.

The way I see it is, apparently if you're a nerd in high school, you're smart enough to listen to a broad range of music. If you're smart enough to have teachers asking what they can do to challenge you, it seems you're open to the Police and Culture Club. it's that simple.

Of course, this wasn't news to anyone at my parents' house, where I'd gone today to celebrate Father's Day with the man who produced this nerd. Also in attendance was Sister #2, along with her two sons, both of whom are teachers. The one who teaches high school had brought along the school's yearbook and offered me a look-see.

"I still have mine from Parkdale," my sister noted as I opened the surprisingly hefty book. I still have mine, too, but it's nothing like what I was holding now. Besides being in full color, every senior not only had a senior portrait but right next to it was each one's baby picture, too.

Seemed a bit much to me.

But what gave the yearbook so much more heft than my own wasn't the baby pictures, it was page after page of candid shots of kids at school. Now mind you, my high school had close to 3,000 students, exactly the same number as the school where he teaches. But no one was documenting our every move on a daily basis, much less combining them into photo-montages that seemed to go on for dozens of pages at a time.

The other thing taking up untold pages was documentation of the sheer number of clubs and groups at the school and I'm talking everything imaginable and then a bunch that never would have occurred to me. Like the Dr. Who Society, a group that watches their favorite episodes and eats snacks. A Millionaire's Club (don't ask). An Environmental Defense Club to teach the importance of up-cycling. And don't get me started on the Do Something Club.

Maybe all this struck me as a bit much because I didn't belong to any clubs in high school because I was too busy being a nerd doing homework, studying, reading and wondering if my life was ever going to start.

You know, like nerds do.

Meanwhile, my Mom mentioned that the mother of my childhood best friend had died and insisted on pulling up the obituary on her tablet to show me. The picture I saw looked nothing like the woman I remember from childhood, although my Mom insists that only her hair is different in the picture.

Well, that and she's 50 years older than the last time I saw her.

Far more interesting than a photo of a woman I didn't recognize was the listing of survivors, which included my childhood best friend, Cindy. She'd applied for the job by showing up at the side door of our new house on moving day, inquiring of my Mom, "Do you have any little girls I can play with?"

At the time, she only had four to choose from: a 4-year old, a 3-year old, a 2-year old and a 3 1/2 month old (two more were yet to come). Guess who she offered up?

But what caught my eye scanning the obit was that Cindy now spells her name Cyndi, which she most definitely did not do when we were children.

Now that I think about it, Cindy and I parted ways even before we were out of elementary school as it became painfully clear that she liked boys and breaking rules while I was perfectly happy being teacher's pet and helping with bulletin boards.

Which leads me to believe that her taste in '80s music could never be anywhere near as broad as mine. Spoken like a true nerd.

The Naked and the Bloody

How could I not say farewell to Troma films at Gallery 5?

As I've learned over the course of this three-month film series, there are givens: tongue-in-cheek horror, graphic violence, buckets of blood and erotica, catnip for a crowd that laps up that kind of stuff.

What I hadn't anticipated was the pre-film erotica I walked in to, namely footage of naked dancing girls from the early '70s judging by the abundant pubic hair, non-augmented breasts, long straight hair and the psychedelic pinwheels, fireworks and haze effects that filtered over and under them, with occasional cutaways to a macho man-type with a serious porn 'stache apparently dreaming of the dancers.

I figured it was just a little something to occupy us until the main event, "Father's Day" began searing our eyeballs with the antics of a serial male rapist and killer (hence the "Happy Father's Day!" as he finishes people off) and the three brave men loose cannons (a priest and two victim's sons) who set out to stop the madness.

When the priest is told that Ahab, the man he needs to find to help catch the bad guy is far away, we see him crossing beaches, bodies of water, jungles and Antarctica before winding up, clothing in tatters, at a plain old cabin in the woods.

We're talking about a movie with a "Creature Effects" screen credit, with many of the so-called "creatures" being badly brutalized victims of the crazed killer, Chris Fuchman (get it?). So, yes, campy, gory and about as socially pungent as they come.

Unlike most of the audience, there's much about a Troma film I have to close my eyes for. Like disembowelment.

Granted, we're not talking the kind of filmmakers who are going for realistic decapitations or shootings, but even so, I can live out my life without seeing a bad guy slice a child's eyeball and leave him for dead, but that's just me.

Fortunately, no Troma film would be complete without large doses of humor and "Father's Day" accommodated with insider winks (a sign outside a large building that read, "Tromaville Courthouse," the local bar, the Lowlife) and sight gags (more fat, white naked man butts than anyone needs to see) and enthusiastic incest.

There was a whole lot of laughter in the room besides my own, probably as much at the gross bits as for the intentionally hilarious parts.

We even got to see Troma founder and big cheese Lloyd Kaufman in the white-suited role as both god and the devil, but coming across more like a modern day Mel Brooks than anything else. And that's funny.

"Lock up your fathers!" the movie warns us. Since August, when I wanted absurd and unsettling, Troma delivered  the goods.

Wow, Gallery 5, those three months of neo-grindhouse just flew by. Isn't that always the way with self-mutilation and pole dancing?

Patio Daddio

I have a great Dad and I went to the Northern Neck to visit him today.

He's not great because he was ahead of his time, helping my Mom with parental responsibilities and daily care of me and my five sisters. There was a time when he used to mention nonchalantly that he'd never once changed a diaper. By today's standards, he was a negligent parent.

He's not great because he fawned over me (or any of us) or told me I was his little princess. But at the dinner table, he would seek out our opinions or ask what we were reading currently and really listen when we answered.

He's not great because he gave me a car when I was of age (he didn't) or paid for my college education (I did) but because he taught me to play beach volleyball, croquet and badminton, all things I wouldn't have tried without his invitation.

Where he's truly great is in his devotion to and love for my Mom, whom he refers to as "my sweet" and "love of my life" as if these were normal terms of endearment after almost 60 years. The flip side of that is how utterly frustrating it is to grow up with that kind of relationship as the role modeling set by your parents because it's a rarity to find, much less maintain in the real world.

But he's also day-to-day great in that he refuses to be any less industrious, gallant or helpful just because he's 83 with a hip replacement. He's still out there cutting multiple acres of grass, going to the wood yard to dump off a load of fallen branches and stopping by the store to pick up some cherries after my Mom casually mentions she's been craving them.

He gives blood regularly at the Red Cross and the old lady volunteers flirt shamelessly with him. Funny part is, it barely registers with him because women have been flirting with him since he was a teenager in Highland Park. And if he hadn't been used to female attention before he had six daughters, he definitely got used to it once we all showed up.

I'm not saying he's perfect - what child wants to wake up and see her naked father delivering tooth fairy money? - and I've no doubt my mother has some anecdotes that would curl my hair (although honestly, I'd like that), but all in all, for a guy who would have probably gotten voted least like to stay married for over a half century, he's done all right.

Today's Father's Day lunch involved two of my sisters, grilling burgers for lunch (because that's one thing he doesn't do anymore), drinking Rose and grapefruit juice with him (his first) and sitting with him while he watched part of the Nationals game and ate the lemon/chocolate cake I'd made for him (because it's one of his favorite combinations and no one else will make it, much less eat it).

And like the father that he's always been, when he finished with his cake plate and fork, he instinctively turned to hand it off to one of the womenfolk, namely me, to rinse and put in the dishwasher.

"Thank you, daughter," he says. Thank you, Dad, for everything else.

Art of the Short Trip

You can learn a lot about a man by living in his house for the weekend. Especially when he's not there.

The only thing I knew about him was that he taught English at VCU and even if I didn't arrive with that tidbit of information, it wouldn't have been tough to glean.

Books were everywhere and not trashy novels or current fads, but titles such as "American Traditions in Literature," "Art of the Short Story" and more books on the subject of F. Scott Fitzgerald than I'd seen in one place. Robert Penn Warren. Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings.

Lots of Hemingway, too, including a fabulous coffee table book called "Picturing Hemingway," filled with a lifetime worth of pictures of Papa and his many wives. There was even a VCU connection with several of (professor of creative writing) Tom DeHaven's novels.

A lot of good reading was on those shelves.

And the house! Actually, it was more of a cottage, situated about 12' off Ivy Creek, and about as charming as it could be despite a completely non-descript exterior.

Lots of windows looking out on the water, a wide open floor plans encompassing kitchen, dining and living space. No telephone, no TV. Best of all, a wide front porch with a swing, a rocking chair and a couple of big wicker chairs surrounded by thick bushes for privacy.

Upstairs where I slept was a low-slung room as wide as the house with six windows, including one looking out over the creek, which I immediately opened. Low bookshelves, a couple of papasan chairs and tables, a bed on the floor and that was about it. No more was required.

Why, you wonder, was I in a strange man's house, albeit that of a man I probably would enjoy talking to?

My intent was to visit my parents on the Northern Neck, but after a massive sycamore fell on their house three weeks ago, puncturing roof and windows, they had to find temporary digs until the months of repairs are completed.

Their house is large - three stories set on multiple acres- and while it's on the river and they have a dock, it's set back from the water itself.

Not so this clean-lined little cottage, where a breeze off the creek blew constantly though the windows and the water shone in the afternoon sun just outside.

It was like being on a weekend getaway at the river, not at all like being in my parents' lovely but far more formal house.

Even my parents had fallen hard for the charm of the place, not to mention its accessibility.

Because here's the thing: ten days after the tree fell, my Mom had had knee replacement surgery, a major event for someone of her age, much less someone who'd just been displaced from home.

But they seemed to have adjusted nicely and I'd chosen Father's Day weekend to visit to help care for her and make my Dad feel at least a little special on his day.

Arriving Saturday, I expected to spend a good part of my day making meals, so I was pleasantly surprised to find that neighbors were bringing over dinner, one of those small town courtesies extended when someone is just out of the hospital.

That meant that after I made lunch, my Mom laid down to ice her knee and take a nap, I was free to entertain myself.

Rooting around in the linen closet, I found an old red coverlet with tiny white flowers on it and took it out to drape over the porch swing, adding a few cushions for lounging.

Voila! Instant reading swing.

With my copy of "The Goldfinch" in hand, I allowed a good chunk of the afternoon to pass me by lost in the story before the neighbors showed up with a roasted chicken, its cavity full of pearl onions and celery, homemade bread, roasted squash and zucchini and potato salad.

Oh, and a homemade strawberry pie. My parents and I savored a lovely dinner chatting about everything and nothing, my Mom saying that food always tastes better when someone else makes it for you. Amen to that.

She mentioned how one of my brothers-in-law had commented the day before about how quiet it is around there.

For a city person like me, the quiet is so loud it's jarring. The only sounds are birds, insects and the very occasional tires on the road as someone drives by (and inevitably waves).

After dinner, I went for a walk, first to see their house, which looked badly injured in places.

Then, eager to see the sun set from as many different angles of the point as possible, I set out to walk every side road as daylight waned and the air got a bit cooler. Small boats still skimmed over the river but most of the sound was frogs beginning to croak.

We spent the evening like we used to on family vacations back when they took their six daughters to the beach every summer. Playing Yahtzee. Trading off crossword puzzles so everyone took a shot at finishing them. Eating ice cream.

I was awakened this morning (at an ungodly 7:45) by my mother calling up from downstairs, "Wake up, Karen! Time to get up!"

Turns out they'd been awake for hours and wanted breakfast. Stat.

Quickly, I made a coffee cake and put it in the oven and began frying bacon and sausage, the breeze from the creek already wafting in and mixing with the aroma of frying pig and, eventually, eggs and English muffins.

Dad opened my Father's Day card, chuckled and thanked me and put it on a table with those from my five sisters.

After I got Mom settled, I set out for a walk, heading down toward Norwood Baptist church (empty today because the shared minister only preaches the 2nd and 4th Sundays of the month), past enormous drifts of blooming orange day lilies.

When I got back to the cottage, I suggested we all move the party to the front porch, sure Mom would enjoy a change of scenery.

A hummingbird flew up to the basket of purple petunias only to depart quickly when there was no feeder. By mid-afternoon, I'd gone to their house and retrieved one of their hummingbird feeders and affixed it to their temporary porch. My parents are inveterate bird watchers and I knew they'd missed the daily show of feathered visitors.

By mid-day, I rustled up a wicker table from the gazebo and with the one already on the porch, we had our lunch out there, watching a fat groundhog toddle around the yard across the road and a couple of bunnies taking their exercise.

Once it was Mom's rest time, I gravitated back to the swing and my book, occasionally looking up as a couple of tiny salt marsh sparrows industriously went about building a nest under the bush a few feet from where I sat.

After reading for nearly an hour, languor wrapped its warm arms around me and I set my book down and let myself sink into the pillows on the swing.

I recall waking up a time or two, always because of a bird song, but giving myself up to it and sliding back into sleep.

It worked out well, though, because when I went inside after finally waking up, Mom was just getting up, too. Perfect. No one would know just how indulgent I'd been.

We spent the rest of the afternoon talking, working more crossword puzzles and eating peaches before I made dinner and started gathering up my belongings to leave.

My parents don't even know when the repairs on their house will begin, much less how long they'll take, but it looks like they'll be in the English professor's house at least through summer.

I foresee a lot of book reading on a strange man's porch swing. Maybe even some of his books.

From what I've surmised about him so far, I don't think he'll mind a bit.

Smile Like You Mean It

I visit my Dad on Father's Day for many reasons.

As the oldest and the one of his six daughters who lives closest, I feel a certain sense of filial duty.

It's a shared meal.

Lunch is always his choice, often crabs, but this year fried chicken, watermelon, potato salad and corn muffins.

I get pie.

Today's was strawberry rhubarb pie a la mode.

He makes me laugh.

Whether making fun of the conservatism of the Richmond Times Dispatch or saying he'll have to have a come-to-Jesus with their neighbor about his early-morning mowing, the man is funny.

Like me, he gets the Washington Post delivered daily and I mention a recent front-page picture of a tall ship in Baltimore, notable for the men lined up high on the masts.

When he goes to retrieve the paper, he comes back shaking his head and lecturing my Mom about "Newspaper 101."

Apparently in Dad's world, old newspapers should be found in one of two places on the back porch.

This one had been in neither.

Instead, it was discovered under a pile of watermelon rinds in the kitchen. And he was not finding that acceptable.

This resulted in a long-winded but hysterical explanation of how newspapers should be cached while my Mom shook her head laughing at him and I played audience.

And that's probably the biggest reason I go to the Northern Neck every Father's Day.

It's a chance to be the adoring fan every Dad wants his daughter to be.

And considering what he showed me about men, he deserves every bit of it.

Welcoming Summer with a Brown Paper Tablecloth

Best way to celebrate the first day of summer: on the Northern Neck enjoying summertime food and drink.

Truthfully, we were celebrating a belated Father's Day, but today being the start of the "living is easy" season, we made sure that the lazy porch meal fit the new season.

First off there was white sangria full of fruits and unknown liquors, but tasting mainly of mango and peach and the kind of libation that can be sipped all afternoon long without a second thought.

After a pleasant enough hour spent sipping and watching the tide come in, we were sufficiently hungry to do justice to the afternoon's feast.

Lunch was a half bushel of crabs heavily seasoned, paired with watermelon and hushpuppies as an accompaniment. Is there a simpler or more delicious summer meal? Not in my family.

As always, talk ranged over the latest news from my five sisters and their goings-on (I try to stay out of the fray and just get the bulletins).  There's always scuttlebutt with my family.

The sister who got married in New Orleans a few weeks after September 11th is having a ten-year anniversary party this fall.

I attended the fifth anniversary soiree down there and am still debating this one, so that was a major topic today. Will she or won't she?

After sating ourselves on crabs, I brought out the dessert I'd made to celebrate the summer solstice: peach ice cream.

Despite a mild peach allergy which causes my mouth to itch when I eat a little bit of peach and my tongue to swell when I overdo it, I think peach ice cream is irresistible.

And homemade peach ice cream enjoyed with white sangria on a breezy porch with  a view of the river? Downright decadent.

But I was only doing it for Dad. Really, it was all about the man who made me possible.

Or, as my Father's Day card said, "Thanks, Dad, for impregnating Mom!" Love, Karen.

He loved it and she cringed. Guess which one I favor.

Defining a Dad's Duties

I am not a Daddy's girl because that was never a possibility. I have five younger sisters, so I was just part of the group of females who shared his life. He was an old-school dad who never changed a diaper or made us a meal, and since I wasn't one of the athletic daughters, we didn't even share his love of sports like some of my sisters did. But the reality was that in his own way, he had a huge hand in shaping the female I became.

So on this Father's Day, I thanked my Dad for making me who I am. For challenging me to share my opinions at the dinner table every night until I left for college (I no longer need any provocation to do so). For suggesting books he thought would interest me and then telling me to write about why I liked them...or disliked them (write your thoughts and feelings, he always said). For telling me flat-out that I had lovely legs when I was eleven (he takes credit because he has great legs).

For modeling how to treat a woman you truly love (he still thinks my Mom is the love of his life). For demonstrating how far a sense of humor and a good vocabulary can take a person in a room full of strangers. For teaching me how to eat crabs until there is not a shred of meat left in them (and hanging in there eating as long as any man).

Every year for Father's Day I drive to the river to spend the afternoon eating crabs and talking with my Dad. For many years, I was the only daughter who did so, but this year two other sisters came and we had great fun reminiscing and reminding each other of long-forgotten stories.

Judging by his reaction, I think my Dad got a kick out of my laundry list of why I thought he'd been a superlative Dad. But driving back, it occurred to me that he probably would have preferred that I'd written out my list. As the man who taught me the importance of the written word, he would have loved having something to refer back to.

I've been home less than an hour and it's already written; I'll drop it in the mail as I leave the house tonight. Happy Father's Day, Dad, with love from Eldest Daughter.